


Something Inbetween

by viscrael



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, Blow Jobs, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Fluff, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Hand Jobs, M/M, Quadrant Confusion, Quadrant Vacillation, Smut, Xeno, i guess its some sort of human/troll society au, kind of??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 21:35:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viscrael/pseuds/viscrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You hate him, but not like that.</p>
<p>So why are you the two of you kissing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Inbetween

**Author's Note:**

> i have weirdly been writing a lot of karkat ships lately also im not even that into erikar i just saw this one gif set and i was like yO  
> but yeah so i liked writing this a lot so ill probs get into this ship some more ayyyyyyy

You hate him.

Not even in the caliginous way—you just _hate him._ He wears these stupid hipster glasses that he _swears_ are prescription even though everyone knows that’s a load of bull and he’s ridiculously arrogant and self-centered and he always has his fucking cape on—like goddamn he’s not a shitty _movie villain_ and he needs to get off his high fucking seahorse.

You hate him, but you don’t want to pound his ass into the wall or something.

So why are you the two of you kissing?

The fucking prick didn’t even kiss your mouth first; he went straight to your neck. Who the fuck does that? You two aren’t even in a relationship or anything, who gave him permission to do that? The sensibly thing is to actually _kiss_ the fucking person first; there’s an unwritten rule and he’s breaking it. You don’t just go straight to hickeys. (The fact that you aren’t stopping him is a minor detail with little to no importance.)

A red blush creeps its way onto your cheeks, and you’re glad that everyone knows your blood color now, because otherwise you’d have to control yourself. You sit there, stiff for a moment while he sucks at the sensitive skin over your neck, down to your collarbones, and he begins to get curious as to why you haven’t reacted.

He pulls away enough to look at you. “W-what’s w-wrong, Kar?”

You hate the way he speaks and you hate the way he looks hurt by your lack of reaction and you hate the way he pushes his glasses up a little on the bridge of his nose and you hate hate hate everything about him so instead you pull him by the collar of his goddam cape and kiss him hard.

But what you hate the most isn’t that you’re enjoying this or that you like the little noise he made in surprise when your lips met. No, that’s all fine and dandy. The worst thing of all is that it’s…it’s not black.

You are not black for him.

Maybe that’s stupid; you’re _supposed_ to be! He’s an insufferable douche-bag who dyes his hair and pretends to be hipster and thinks magic is real even though he pretends he doesn’t and whines all the time and pesters you when he knows you’re upset and calls you “Kar” and does that thing with his tongue that you like and knows what it feels like to be rejected and—

He makes a throaty noise, reminiscent of a whine because you’ve stopped responding again, too lost in thought, and he mumbles something against your mouth and his teeth graze against your bottom lip and it draws blood. Upon realizing this, he pulls back suddenly and says, “Fuck, sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

“Shut up.” You’re kissing again. He’s a bit more careful with his teeth this time and that disappoints you because you liked it. Your arms wrap around his neck.

His breathing is picking up, his hands going under your shirt and resting on your side. You shiver because his hands are cold and his rings are pressed flat against your skin. He notices but only smirks, going back to kissing your neck. You tilt your head back and let out a soft moan this time. You tell yourself it’s because you don’t have to hold back, but in actuality, it’s in hopes that the responses make him happy. It seems to work.

“Kar,” he mumbles, “Kar, Karkat, Karkat…”

“Save it,” you tell him. Your voice cracks, and he raises an eyebrow. God, every touch is so _gentle_ and sweet and he’s tracing circles with his thumb over your grub scars and this is beyond _not black_ and these aren’t the feelings you thought you had for him goddammit romance is fucked up.

He doesn’t continue with your name; instead, he pulls himself from off the grimy couch, slips his cape and scarf off, and sits down in front of you. You blush madly while he reaches for the belt of your pants. “What the fuck?!”

“Is this okay?” he asks, slender hands beginning to undo your belt. You look away and give a small nod, to which he smiles with his stupid overbite and unbuttons your pants as well.

Before he does anything else, he asks, “Should I take off my rings?” and you tell him, yeah, idiot, that would be helpful. He huffs while removing them, setting them gently on the coffee table behind him. “No need to be so rude.”

You don’t respond, only sending him a partial glare before he pulls your jeans and boxers down and pulls your bulge out. It’s almost unsheathed, slick with red, and he lets it slide over his fingers for a moment while your breathing picks up at the touch. He kisses the thing, the fucking creep, and says, “You’re bulge is so pretty, Kar.”

“What,” you grunt, because now he’s sucking on the tip and his mouth is ridiculously hot, “the fuck?” Putting your hands in his hair, you shift a little on the couch to get more comfortable while he pumps and sucks, making these stupidly cute little mewling sounds, which vibrate against your bulge and make you shiver some more. “I’m not fucking pretty, you a-asshole.”

“W-wrong.” He looks up from at you to grin, pulls his mouth away but continues stroking you. “You’re gorgeous.” You make the mistake of looking at him as he says that.

“T-take your fucking g-glasses off,” you tell him.

“I’m a little busy.”

Your sigh in response turns into a sort of moan as he picks up speed. Leaning forward carefully so you don’t disturb him, you slip his stupid glasses off for him and shakily set them down on the coffee table, near his other disregarded garments. You sit back again and lean your head against the back of the couch, eyes closing in pleasure.

“Karkat,” he says to get your attention.

You grunt in response.

“Say my name.”

“N-no!”

The pumping stops abruptly.

Under normal circumstances you would’ve flicked him off, but you were nearing orgasm and god do you _need_ to finish right now. So you take a shaky breath and throw your forearm over your eyes, so you don’t have to watch you embarrass yourself. “Eridan,” you say quietly, hesitantly.

He probably grins. “Go on.” He’s taking you in his mouth again, oh god.

“Eridan, Eridan, Eridan.” All but moaning, you’re getting into this; you feel the pressure building up, he’s doing that thing with his tongue again, his teeth are scraping you. “E-eridan, Eridan...Er-ahh!..Eridan…”

He pulls away to grab a bucket that was stashed under the coffee table (what?). When you finish, you try not to get anything anywhere but in the bucket, but it’s a bit difficult. He sucks some of your genetic material off the tip of your bulge, giving you those goddamn bedroom eyes.

After a few moments of sitting there, your breathing returns to normal and you slump back against the couch. He grabs the bucket and puts it out of sight somewhere, washes his hands, and sits on the couch again. He pulls you into his lap, with little protest from you.

“Why the fuck did that bucket _just so happen_ to be conveniently near the couch?” you say, all the snark lost because your voice is quieter than normal and all you want to do is sleep.

“Dunno,” he says, sounding smug.

“You _planned_ this, didn’t you, assfins?”

“Did you just call me assfins?”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

He chuckles a little, the noise vibrating through his chest. You’re pressed against his chest, arms around him while he runs his hands through your hair. You’ve never heard him laugh and you decide that you like it. “Yeah, maybe,” he says, and leaves it at that.

“I hate you,” you mumble into his t-shirt.

“Really?”

“…No.”

**Author's Note:**

> gif set: http://aphromano.tumblr.com/post/61881057740/i-hope-i-dont-get-fuckin-crabs-from-this


End file.
